


Low Chaos Is An Oxymoron

by MsrTenOverSix



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime AU, Criminals and Gangsters, Everyone is a criminal, Thief Corvo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6707545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsrTenOverSix/pseuds/MsrTenOverSix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daud is too old for this shit.</p>
<p>This shit being the Whalers, a life of crime, and Corvo Fucking Attano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Chaos Is An Oxymoron

All the lights shut off in Bunting’s apartment. The hour is late enough that no one’s around to notice. 

Fog rolls in heavy from the Wrenhaven, a sifting, dense wall that washes across the pavement like an incoming tide. It filters through the darkened city like a plague, churning over every brick and lapping at every windowpane. Daud watches it curl against the edges of his jacket, lips twisting in distaste.

_'Well,'_ he laments _,_ ' _At least its good cover.'_

He spends a moment wishing for fairer weather, and immediately balks with a potent rush of self-disgust. It’s been a few years since he’s been personally involved in any real fieldwork. Clearly, he’s turning soft from the inactivity.

Maybe Rulfio is right, and this excursion is a much needed breather from the rut he’s been in for the last several months. (Not that he’ll ever admit it to Rulfio – the smug bastard.)

Glancing over the rooftops, he keeps his fingers from twitching beneath the thick, expensive gloves, but doesn’t bother with masking his frown. Damn it all, but he could use a stiff drink!

His eyes catch the quick flash of light, sharp and small like a pinprick, from across the street, and his focus returns with force. It’s Quinn, signaling the all-clear. Time to commence.

He moves then, scaling over the rooftop to the adjacent building with an old, practiced ease. He crouches at the roof’s edge, balanced against the steep incline. Glancing at his watch; 1:27 flashes in a low-light silver.

The time is ideal – anyone out won’t be looking to linger, not on a night like this. Any commotion they make – and they shouldn’t – will hardly matter; no one will be around to witness it. At least, not until 2:03, when the on-duty officers make the next round, if Marco’s timekeeping is accurate (which it tends to be).

He inhales, and relents that at least the night air does something to clear up the stench of the river; a trade-off for the moisture and chill that clings to his neck and face.

The time shifts to 1:29, and like clockwork he slips from his perch, dropping down onto the balcony below. Moments later a hand appears on the stone railing, and another figure scales over the edge to join him. Even in the dark, and with no discernible features beneath the mask and uniform, he recognizes Thomas.

Neither acknowledge the other, Thomas holding his tongue (for once). Maybe he’s just like the others: eager to show off for Daud. Sometimes, the older man feels like he’s in charge of a bunch of schoolchildren, all clamoring to be the teacher’s pet. The excitement that had gone around when he’d announced his participation in this mission had been obnoxious(ly endearing).

Thomas approaches the locked doors, slipping forward like a shadow passing, smooth and almost as quiet. Daud remains poised and ready, taking in the silence that hangs heavy on Clavering Boulevard. Somewhere in the bowels of the city, a hound howls. Daud glances behind himself, but nothing besides the occasional rat or blowing bit of trash disrupts the stillness below. Somewhere in the dark, the eyes of at least three Whalers are on them; each watching, waiting for the next task.

Thomas leans away from the door suddenly, catching his attention once more. The novice’s shoulders are pushed back, tensing visibly to Daud’s trained eyes.

Something’s wrong.

“ _It’s not locked.”_ The words crackle to life from his earpiece, so faint that he doesn’t even hear a sound slip from beneath Thomas’ mask.

Daud registers the young man’s surprise, and echoes it. Bunting is a cautious man (when he’s not bedding whores), and it’s not like him to leave any door unchecked, or any window unbarred. The art dealer has made most of his wealth conning others and selling impressive fakes; he has a tendency to keep the _true_ valuables for himself, in this very apartment. He guards them more carefully than he does his own life.

“Everybody report.” Daud doesn’t waste time; he’s a suspicious individual, always has been, and it’s kept him alive this long.

_“We’ve been watching this place since nightfall. All the staff have left for the night. No other guests, and no one seen entering or exiting.”_

_“Bunting hasn’t left the Golden Cat. His attendant is also here.”_

_“He definitely doesn’t let anyone in his apartment when he’s not there.”_

“Any chance it’s a slip-up?”

_“Possibly. Bunting left earlier than anticipated. He may have rushed the help.”_

Radio silence. Thomas doesn’t move. Daud feels a familiar thrill as everyone waits on his call. Making decisions like this is what he’s always enjoyed. Weighing the options now, he comes to the decision that it’d be wiser to call the night off.

“Proceed with caution. It could be nothing.”

Well, you don’t get into this line of work if you don’t enjoy the risks involved. At any rate, it’s not like he needs to warn them that it _could_ be something. Whalers are trained in pessimism and caution.

“ _Roger.”_ All the voices chime in at once, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. _Schoolchildren._

Thomas proceeds then, opening the door with careful consideration to noise and trailing light. The security system is off, and will remain so until they’ve successfully vacated the premises. No need to get tripped up my any amateurish blunders.

Daud follows the novice inside, waits for him to prop the door in place – open just enough to let the others know the path is clear, shut enough that no one will notice it if they’re not looking for it. Sparing half a glance for the other, the two quickly split up and scour the main halls of each floor. Checking for any separately powered cameras or traps, or anything else that might cause a wrinkle in the plan.

The cursory inspection is over in minutes.

_“All clear on the second and third.”_

Daud stops to inspect an ornate Tyvian Burial Urn. Clearly expensive; it’ll definitely be coming along.

“First as well. Proceed with all operations.”

There’s no sound to give anything away, but as Daud passes by the urn he knows that the Whalers are mobilizing all around. Two will slip in through the balcony upstairs, while Thomas proceeds to the safe. Quinn will be on rooftops with Marco, while Rulfio keeps tabs on Bunting over at the Golden Cat. Yuri is waiting with the boat, and he’ll have two watching to see that no one is _unlucky_ enough to wander through their escape route.

Normally, they don’t have quite this many involved in a single mission, but the novices need to be tested, and they’ll need the numbers to get everything back to the boat. At any rate, a large haul makes everyone jovial, so the more the merrier (probably, Daud honestly doesn’t give a fuck).

The clock on the wall flashes 1:43 – one minute off his watch. Knowing that all his men are finally at work, he focused on _his_ task: locate the Sokolov. Or, if he were inclined to honesty (which he isn’t): locate _his_ Sokolov, and burn it to ash. The rest of it – the locked safes, the paintings, the urns, the expensive books and other riches – that can all be left to his Whalers.

He’s heard enough disturbing rumors that his portrait is located in Bunting’s personal chambers, right beside his bed (Connor and Yuri have had no problem reiterating this at every opportunity). Thanks to the floorplan dug up by Rapha and her team, Daud knows exactly where he’s headed. Past the urn there’s a long hall, and he takes the first door on the right. Activating the flashlight concealed in his sleeve, he shines a beam into the darkened room. It catches on the edges of a dark-wood, king-sized four poster.

Good, seems like he’s in the right place.

Lifting the flashlight, his eyes follow the beam to the wall behind it, and…

It’s empty.

His gaze darts around, the beam following. Nothing. He turns around, scans the remaining walls. Absolutely nothing. His frown deepens into a scowl, light freezing as he stills. Turning back to the bed, he shines it against the wall behind it, going over every groove and flaw – there!

On the wall, small enough that he had thought it a flaw in the old wood: metal hooks, clearly for wall hangings. He moves closer, brushing up against the bed. The beam lowers, floods over the fabric. He notices what he hadn’t on the first pass: dirt, scuffmarks, and disturbed bedding. Someone had been standing on the bed, and recently. Certainly not Bunting or any servant, judging by the mess. No Whaler would leave such obvious signs, either. Which could only mean…

“Everybody, call in now!” He hisses into the mouthpiece.

Instantly, his Whalers respond in their designated order. No one’s missing, but that’s not all:

“ _Am I the only one not finding…anything?”_

“ _I’ve got nothing over here. He’s an art dealer, right? Where the hell is all the art?”_

_“Dammit! The safe is empty!”_

Daud is momentarily stunned as they all confirm it: someone’s beat them to the punch. Furious, he’s already backtracking out of the room.

“Quinn! I thought you’d confirmed the site!”

_“I did! The place was packed! I checked it all out_ myself _only a few –”_

But Daud stops listening, his entire body rooted to the spot. Tension is radiating from him, his muscles coiling as he processes what he sees directly in front of him. Or rather, what he _doesn’t_ see.

The stand where the burial urn had been proudly on display is empty.

“Who else is on the first floor?” He asks, voice deadly soft.

Silence and static.

“I repeat, who’s on the ground floor?”

“ _I’m on second.”_ Thomas groans, blinded by the frustration of an empty safe.

“ _…We’re on third, sir.”_ That’s Hobson, and that means Jenkins must be with him.

No one else is inside.

Daud clenches on hand, wills himself to remain cool and collected as the silence seems to thicken, growing dark and ominous. Nothing on the radio; everyone is probably holding their breaths.

_Creak._

Directly behind him, of _fucking_ course.

He whirls around, blade already in one hand, as the flashlight beams raises. It catches on darkness, on metal blade, on the urn, on flashing glass, and brass, and wires – a skull? No, wait, it’s a mask! Quickly everything condenses into a single, comprehensible image:

A hooded figure, skulking like the grim reaper, frozen in place with that damned urn clutched between two, heavily tattooed hands. The mask is turned directly towards him, the figure tense and clearly uncomfortable. Despite the odd getup, this man obviously wasn’t looking to be seen, and now that he has been, it seems he has no idea what to do about it. If Daud had another minute to process it, he might laugh at the absurdity of it. But now is not the time for humor, it’s the time to be rational.

“What–”

The urn shatters at his feet, exploding in a cloud of human remains.

“Motherfuckingshitbastard!”

Everything falls apart quickly, after that.

Whalers are jabbering in his ear, rushing to his location with little pretense for stealth. Daud isn’t listening to them, isn’t even sure of what orders he’s barking at them. Instead he’s giving chase, half-coated in ash, and only barely certain he’s actually following someone. One moment he’s barreling through a hall, the next he’s bursting through a door out into the dark and wet night.

Blinking to adjust his vision, he whirls around the back alley and finds – absolutely no one, quickly followed up with three Whalers.

“ _Sir!”_

_“What the hell is–”_

_“Are you alri–”_

_“_ Shut up!” He snarls, patience flung out with whatever corpse is decorating his jacket.

Silence, _finally_.

“Hobson. Jenkins: Dark jacket, skull mask. Split up. Find him!”

The two novices dart off into the night, not needing anything more.

“Rulfio, stay on Bunting. Marco, keep watch on pedestrian and officers. Yuri, stay with the boat. Everyone else, _start searching_!”

A chorus of ‘sirs’. Not even Yuri or Rulfio try to lighten the atmosphere.  

Thomas stays beside the apartment, wisely interpreting that he is not a part of the “everyone else.” Thankfully the man doesn’t try to disrupt the returning silence, allowing Daud to seethe in peace. Instead, the novice remains on lookout for curious neighbors, though he doubts anyone had a window open to hear the commotion.

If he chooses to comment on Daud’s new look, he’s smart enough to save it for much, _much_ later.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, what do you guys think? Anyone interested in seeing more? This is my favorite video game, and I have quite a few ideas for these guys. :3


End file.
